“I will be stronger in the morning,” Rachel said as Bilhah helped her down from the litter and led her to a cushioned seat in the shade of a large olive tree.
“Reuben,” Jacob said, “come with me. We must go up to the city and tell them of our plight. We will need their permission to camp here.”
When the elders of the city heard their story and determined that Jacob was indeed the grandson of Abraham, Melchizedek’s old friend, they gladly gave their permission. The story of Melchizedek’s meeting with Abraham and Abraham’s generosity in paying him a tenth of the spoils taken in battle had been told over and over until they knew it well.
They not only gave their permission but ordered supplies of cool wine and big round loaves of freshly baked bread to be given them for their evening meal. Because Jacob feared that the elders may have heard of the massacre at Shechem, he hastened to assure them that they would stay only for the night. He could tell by their quick glances back and forth among themselves that they were relieved. “Stay,” they chorused, “stay as long as you like.”
When Jacob returned to the camp with the news that they could rest there for the night, everyone was relieved. Bilhah almost wept with gratitude. “My lord,” she said, “Rachel has only this moment fallen into a deep and troubled sleep. I bathed her poor, swollen hands and feet in cool water from the brook and made her an herbal drink.”
“I must see her,” Jacob said.
“She’s sleeping,” Bilhah warned him. “Go and eat. There’s nothing you can do.”
Jacob moved past her as though he had not heard. Determined not to wake Rachel, he quietly sank down on the mat beside her. To his surprise she reached for his hand, breathed a sigh of relief, and went back to sleep. He sat without moving, studying the dear, loved face and pondering the strangeness of things. It was obvious that no one came into the world in any other way and no one, no matter how elegant or important, could leave without dying and being buried.
He shifted uneasily. He did not want to carry those thoughts to their conclusion. He preferred to think that with a bit of rest Rachel would be all right.
It was late afternoon and from a distance came the rhythmic, swinging chant of harvesters. Looking up he could see men driving their animals around the threshing floor on a great rock that rose above the city to the north. Nearby he could hear his wives giving orders in whispers and his sons guiding the sheep down to the brook with soft cooing sounds. In the darkening sky above the olive trees, small sparrows dipped and swooped, then settled on the lower branches to rest.
Evening came quickly. It was announced first by the call of watchmen on the city walls above them. Then the hollow, strident tones of a ram’s horn signaled the end of day and the closing of the city gates. In their camp, fires were lit and the tempting odor of roasting game filled the night air. Later, much later, there was singing. On this night it was the lonesome, haunting songs they sang, with no exchange of the usual jokes or dancing.
Joseph came from the fire to where Jacob still sat holding Rachel’s limp hand. He didn’t say anything but crept close to his father and was soon asleep. Jacob dozed off hearing only the periodic, eerie call of the night watchmen on the city wall announcing the progression of the night. When Rachel stirred he gave her sips of hot broth brought to her by Leah. Then finally, even he drifted off into a sound and dreamless sleep.
In the morning, before dawn, Jacob roused and noticed that Rachel was having periods of contracting, wrenching pain. She would be in real labor soon, and they must try to reach his father’s camp near the Oaks of Mamre. With growing alarm, he ordered everyone to quickly gather up their things. “We must be on our way out of this valley before sunrise,” he said.
Just as the sky was lightening in the east, they headed down the road that led around the city to the Hebron road. They stopped briefly at a cave that contained a spring to fill their water skins. “It’s called Gihon,” a shepherd standing nearby told them. “Gihon means ‘bursting forth,’ because it flows out in bursts,” he said. The water was cool and refreshing and they felt encouraged.
It was the end of summer and almost time for the early rains. The brief light at dawn quickly faded and soon dark clouds rolled in, covering the sky. There was an unwelcome chill in the air, a barren look to everything. Instead of the bright flowers that carpeted the ground in spring and summer, there were now only the thickets of thorns and leafless vines hanging over the stone terraces. Most of the olives had been harvested, and only rarely did they see women out beating the branches to gather the last green nub. These trees still had their leaves though they were now a gray-green, dusty and tattered.